Look Both Ways
by ibelieveinguardianangels
Summary: "This curly raven haired man was certainly alive and breathing and now John was gritting his teeth, checking his injuries and planning his murder." Post Reichenbach Co-written with Tamuril2.
1. Chapter 1

**So, this is my first ever attempt at a collaboration with another author and I have to say that I'm glad that author was** Tamuril2 **. Here is our post-Reichenbach story. I'm not a doctor - I can't speak for Tam in this sense - and I have very little medical knowledge so if anything is incorrect, apologies.**

 **As always, sorry for any mistakes.**

Look Both Ways

John couldn't lie. The very last thing that he had expected to happen that day was to find himself standing over a body that looked remarkably like his dead best friend. Except, this curly raven haired man was certainly alive and breathing (wonderful, considering that he had just been sent skidding across the wet road by a taxicab) and now John was gritting his teeth, checking his injuries and planning his murder.

 _Couldn't have bloody told me,_ he growled inwardly as he knelt down on the rain sodden road and picked up his friend's limp wrist, ignoring the screaming people pressing in. _No, just had to bloody do it yourself. Just had to show off._ Sherlock couldn't stand not being the centre of attention. Not ever. So, John simply stepped into the background and supported him from the shadows. And then the man had gone and killed himself…or not, seeing as John was right next to him. Worse, the bloody showboat didn't even have the decency to be awake to face John that, John found himself pleading softly with his pale friend. "Please, don't be dead. Just, please, don't be dead."

 _I don't think I can handle it again._

 **SH-SH-SH-SH**

Hovering in the waiting room of the hospital, John ran his palm over his face before burying his fingers in his mussed hair once again, a habit he seemed to have picked up from the detective. Sherlock was currently being checked over by the nurses and, from what they had told John, it wasn't necessarily good. They had informed him that his injuries from the accident were superficial; bruised ribs and a concussion, but they had found some blemishes that they wished to investigate further.

John loathed being kept in the dark.

" _Wh-what do you mean, blemishes?" John choked out, his mouth suddenly dry. The grey walls of the waiting room loomed in closer, as if eager to hear the morbid news as well. John hated them even more for it, even though he knew it was only his imagination and worry causing the effect. Still, was it just him or had the room gone a little quieter since the nurse had mentioned the word 'blemishes'._ Stop worrying about that and focus on Sherlock _,_ _he admonished himself and then tried to wheedle more information out of the nurse. "Please, he's a good friend."_

 _The blonde haired nurse gave him a sympathetic look and glanced down at the chart in her hands. John had the sudden urge to yank it out of her grasp and read it himself, but he held himself back and waited impatiently for her to explain. She scanned the papers and checked the back of one._

" _It's not conclusive and the doctor won't give more than that right now but," her brown eyes came up to meet his, "and you didn't hear this from me, one of the other nurses in there said there was some heavy lacerations and cuts to your friend's back, as well as severe malnutrition."_

 _John swallowed hard. "Is…is he going to be all right?"_

" _I'm sorry sir, but that's all I know at this time." She flashed him a reassuring smile. "I'll be sure to come and tell you if that changes though."_

 _John watched her go, his heart clenched tight in his chest. Lacerations? Cuts? Malnutrition…okay, that one didn't surprise John as much. Sherlock always forgot he needed to eat unless Mrs. Hudson or he told the man. But the others…just what had Sherlock been up to during these six months?_

John's left leg was aching as he fought to stop his right from bouncing anxiously. He was perched tentatively on the edge of the uncomfortable hospital chair, his head in his hands, ready to stand whenever somebody wearing hospital scrubs passed by. But no-one seemed to possess any information on his friend's current condition other than the vague comments every so often by nurses who seemed to wish to be _any_ where else.

And then, as if the world had universally decided that today's trials just hadn't been enough, a black brolly entered his view. Only one man owned a brolly and would come to see John at most inopportune moment. John gritted his teeth, his hands curling into fists. _Of all the…No, don't let him get to you. ._

Not again. He'd fallen for the man's tricks too often in the past, something which Sherlock had always teased him about, but not now. Not today. Right now, Captain John Watson was going to control his temper. He was going to calmly stand and speak to Sherlock's older brother. He would ask him if he knew how Sherlock was doing, since the nurses didn't seem to want to be helpful in that regard.

He was certainly _not_ going to throttle the government agent beside him. _Although punching is not off the menu just yet…_

John slowly raised his head, the incessant tapping of metal tip of said umbrella really beginning to grate on his already fraying nerves. Mycroft was standing a few centimetres away from the chair he was sitting in, casually tapping his umbrella on the floor repeatedly. It was as though he was _purposely_ attempting to annoy the already fraught doctor.

"Doctor Watson," He greeted with what could only be described as a condescending smile the second their eyes met, "it's been so very long since we last saw one another, hasn't it?"

At this, John rolled his eyes, pushing himself into a standing position so that the British Government wasn't looking down on him. Well, no more than usual at least.

 _Blast his height._ John scowled up at the man and felt his arms tremble from resisting the urge to slug Mycroft. "You knew."

It wasn't a question.

Mycroft had the audacity to sniff and tilt his head. "Of course."

The trembling in John's arms got worse. "And the torture?"

"An unfortunate side effect. He did so love to antagonize–"

Mycroft didn't get any farther than that. John's fist in his nose put a pretty permanent stop to whatever stupid words the man was planning on delivering. It also prompted at least one person in the waiting room to scream and a whole slew of secret service men to suddenly appear. John let them restrain him, cause honestly he didn't know if he could stop himself now that he'd hit Mycroft once.

The bloody…he'd known! Known Sherlock was being tortured and hunted and on his own. Known and had the audacity to blame Sherlock for it. As if he deserved to be hurt like that. As if…John growled.

"Let me go," he spat at the men holding his arms. "I'm over it."

The man to his left raised an eyebrow, but Mycroft waved an indifferent hand. "Do as he says."

John jerked himself out of the grips and marched right up to Mycroft. "I ever see you near Sherlock, I'll shoot you."

Mycroft had the decency to look a bit shocked and ashamed, but he nodded. John narrowed his eyes as he watched the man turn to leave. Just before the older Holmes disappeared around the corner, he glanced back. "John, regardless of any hurt my brother may have caused you, he…he does care for you and…losing your friendship would…devastate him."

John blinked. _He actually thinks I'd…?_ He took a deep breathe in. "Leave. Right now, Mycroft. Before I forget I'm "over it"."

Mycroft dipped his head and disappeared, along with his men.

As he watched Sherlock's meddling older brother leave the antiseptic scented hospital ward he allowed a frown to knit his eyebrows together. How could Mycroft even entertain the idea that John would discard his friendship with Sherlock? Was it not clear enough for the seemingly omnipresent man to realise that the initial loss of his _best friend_ tore him to shreds and shattered him? Of course he wouldn't risk losing him _again._

"Party for Mr. Holmes?" A male voice asked.

John whirled around, spotting the young man instantly, and marched up. "Here."

The nurse – Jack, his coat said – glanced at his chart and John had a brief flash of wonder at why all nurses seemed to do that. It only served to annoy or worry those who waited, so why do it at all? Was it to prolong the awkward conversations that seemed to ensue? Did they just forget the information on their papers the instant their eyes left it? John wracked his brain to try and remember if he'd ever done this, but all that came up was Sherlock's battered form and the former nurse's words of warning. Lacerations and cuts. Malnutrition.

 _Right then._ John straightened. "Is he all right?"

The look on Jack's face told John all he needed to know. If there was one thing he had learned from the currently unwell detective it was how to read people. If there was one thing he had learned from being a fully functioning human, it was how to read expressions. There was something wrong with Sherlock and Jack didn't know how to tell him.

"I'm a doctor." He heard himself saying. When in doubt, John fell back on that, as it seemed to make people think him more able to accept hard things. That, and being told he was a former soldier of Her Majesty's army. Sherlock had always snorted at, what he called, the bizarre nature of simple people's minds. 'What does it matter if you're a doctor or soldier, John? There's plenty of proof showing that they cannot handle things as well.'

 _Too true, Sherlock, but let's have him believe the lie a while longer._

Jack swallowed and nodded. "Of course, doctor. It seems that there were a few complications, due to the impact of the car."

Complications was never a good word to hear coming out of a nurse or doctor's mouth. Complications meant things were bad enough that the doctor didn't want to commit to any one diagnosis. Complications meant that it was bad enough that the patient might need surgery. John swallowed hard.

"What kind are we talking about? Surgery? MRIs?"

"His liver was found to be bleeding out, so the doctor had to operate and remove part of it. Due to that, they also found some other internal bleeding from the bruises to his lower back."

"What type of bruises?" John asked, his throat thick with apprehension. He could think of only one thing that might lead to such a phenomenon.

Jack flicked him a look. "Doctor Heyman said beatings over the course of a few months. Not all at the same time and most likely not by the same person."

Jack, apparently deciding that was all that needed to be said, apologised to John and left to inform some other unfortunate families about their friend/sibling/child. John slowly lowered himself into his seat as his legs grew weak. He repeated his earlier action of running his hand over his face before covering it completely with both.

Sherlock had been beaten. Over and over again. _How?_ John thought, choosing to try and apply some of Sherlock's own techniques. Lacerations, the doctors had said. So Sherlock had been struck repetitively by some kind of weapon. Had Sherlock starved himself? John knew what he was like when he was working. Or had someone purposely starved _him_?

Just _what_ had been going on while he'd been 'dead'?

 _Oh Sherlock._ John swallowed as Dr. Heyman led him into the room and he got his first good look at his best friend. Funny how the lies and months left mourning over an empty coffin didn't mean a thing anymore. Not with Sherlock laying there whiter than the blankets covering him. Not when Dr. Heyman said that he'd been lucky to live through the surgery – 'the bleed was extensive, John' – and was still at risk, thus in the ICU.

 _All these months alone and look where it got you, you bloody idiot._ John barely registered Dr. Heyman leaving the room as he pulled over a chair and sat down. _Just when are you going to start trusting me to help you?_

 **SH-SH-SH-SH**

John couldn't tell you how long he'd been sitting by the detective's bedside but he was certain of one thing. The uncomfortable ache in his chest that stemmed from the worry he was feeling for his best friend hadn't faded since he had realised that it was the consulting detective lying on the hard concrete.

 _It was bad enough when he was 'dead', but now…_ John stretched arms and felt his back pop a bit. It did nothing to alleviate the hurt in his heart or the annoying stress that each minute brought. This is why John thrived on action. He could do things, help people. This, sitting in hospitals, waiting for friends to wake, was almost unbearable. It made his fingers twitch to hit something – that one punch to Mycroft didn't cover it by far.

"It usually doesn't," a soft, baritone voice said.

John's head shot to the side so fast that he was surprised that didn't give himself whiplash. His eyes widened a fraction when he saw those familiar, yet bloodshot, kaleidoscope eyes. There was something different about his eyes this time. They had lost their sparkle. That usual, mischievous glint had been beaten out of him. His Sherlock - his best friend - was broken. And John hated that he didn't know how to fix him.

"Sherlock…" John whispered and then failed to come up with anything else to say. What could he say? So much had happened and yet so little of it involved John.

Sherlock was alive, but John didn't know why. No, he'd been left to mourn his friend as Sherlock went who-knows-where doing who-knows-what. And, by the looks of it, the tall man had needed his help.

 _Where was Mycroft in all this?_ John grit his teeth. If he ever found out the older brother had done anything more to do with Sherlock's death – as if confiding all of his young brother's secrets wasn't bad enough – John would seriously consider making _him_ disappear.

"Don't you…" Sherlock winced as he shifted towards John more, "think that's rather extreme, John?"

"Stay out of my head." John hissed and then closed his eyes. He didn't mean to snap like that and certainly not when Sherlock was so vulnerable. Later, when Sherlock was better and out of here, John would sit him down and they'd have a nice, long chat about what friends do and don't do to each other. A very, long chat.

As the silence stretched on, John opened his eyes again. "Sorry, mate, I…"

"No," Sherlock interjected. "It is…I was…"

John's heart clenched as his normally stoic friend stuttered and avoided his eyes.

If the fact that he was currently lying, looking unbelievably tiny, on a white hospital bed wasn't enough to convince anyone who saw him that he was not the Sherlock they know and love, his speech certainly did. The suddenly developed stammer, the uncertainty behind his words - they were all signs that Sherlock had been stripped of his confidence.

 _Well, let's take this bull by the horns, shall we?_

"Sherlock, I –"

"John, you –"

Sherlock, John thought, looked rather like fish as he floundered on what to do now that they'd both spoken at the same time. It caused a smile to play at the corner of his mouth, but he forced himself to remain a bit stern. A smile would only throw his socially inept friend off. Instead, John scooted a bit closer and leaned his elbows on his knees.

"You first," he said.

Sherlock flicked a glance at him, then his hands, and finally seemed to decide on a spot just over John's shoulder. "You are…no doubt, you are wondering at my reappearance."

A little of John's resentment and hurt flared back up, but he shoved it back down and nodded. "A bit."

"I…Moriarty…" Sherlock trailed off. "This is harder than I thought it would be."

"Telling the truth after a lie usually is."

John saw Sherlock visibly wince as the words left his lips. His eyes slid closed and he turned his head away from John, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. John figured that he should apologise, but he couldn't bring himself to. Not for showing the hurt he felt as a result of Sherlock's lying.

His timing on the other hand. He was always complaining at Sherlock for his timing. At least he was before he "died". The least he could do was apologise for his lack of tact.

"Listen, Sherlock," John spoke softly, reaching out to place a comforting hand on his shoulder and feeling something squeeze his heart when Sherlock flinched at the contact. Suddenly, John didn't know what to say.

Had Sherlock flinched because of what John had said about lying or because of what had been done to him during his 'death'?

 _Am I a horrid person for hoping the latter?_ Probably. John felt dirty for even thinking that. How could he hope that his friend was afraid because he'd been beaten too often? John slumped. Because he was selfish. He wanted Sherlock to still trust him, to still want him around. Even if it was only in a hospital. _Cause he showed me rather spectacularly that he doesn't want me otherwise._

"Don't be Anderson, John."

"What?"

"Don't jump to conclusions without evidence."

John pulled his hand off Sherlock's shoulder and looked away before his friend could see the anger and hurt he was sure played in his eyes. "I would think there was plenty of evidence."

"Hardly." Sherlock sniped. "Did you not listen to the tape-recording I left?"

John frowned and searched his memories, but no tape-recorder came up. He looked to his friend. "Sherlock, there was no tape-recorder."

Now, John's worry escalated. Sherlock was remembering things that hadn't happened. Had there been brain damage that the doctors missed? Maybe he should go get a nurse, have them order a few tests. Maybe… But a growl from Sherlock distracted him from those morbid thoughts.

"Sherlock?"

"Mycroft." Sherlock snapped, his hands clenched into fists. "He must have…John, there was a tape recording of my last conversation with Moriarty. On the rooftop. He…there were snipers. Three. If…If I didn't jump…I…Mycroft was supposed to show you all that tape!"

 _Oh._ Oh, John was going to kill that man.

The glare in John's eyes became murderous and Sherlock felt himself shrinking back into the admittedly cardboard-like hospital pillow. He'd seen that look far too many times before and he certainly didn't want to be on the receiving end of what came out of it.

"John, I," Sherlock began to defend, "I promise...I didn't...Mycroft..."

And then John reached out and everything blurred into one and nothing.

The room suddenly became wet and musty, filled with the _drip-drip_ sound of that rusty water pipe and the hoarse wheeze of his interrogator – Nenad he'd introduced himself as – dusted off his desert clothing. The sand wafted over and Sherlock shivered in anticipation. Stretched out as he was, hands high above his head, chest and feet bare, Sherlock had no hope of stopping this. No backup. Mycroft wouldn't even think to look for him for another two days.

"Три дана и још нема звука. Ви импресионирати мене, Енглеза. Ако само једва. (Three days and yet no sound. You impress me, Englishman. If only just barely.)" The man signalled his brawny companion with the short beard and thin cut above his left eye to round Sherlock until the other man stopped just out his line of sight, until he stopped behind him. Sherlock shivered, though he couldn't tell at this point if it was fear, lack of sleep, or the cold that made it happen. The first man snapped his fingers in front of Sherlock's face to get his attention back.

"Питам се колико дуго можете да одоли Саву? Он може бити прилично убедљив ..., ја сам рекао. (But I wonder how much longer you can resist Sava? He can be quite...persuasive, I am told.)" The man grabbed a handful of Sherlock's matted hair and yanked it back. "Ви ћете се изјасни са мном да ми каже своје тајне, Енглеза. (You will plead with me to tell me your secrets, Englishman.)"

"Не држите ... ... твој ... дах (Don't...hold...your...breath)" Sherlock gasped out. Where the rebellious statement came from, Sherlock couldn't be sure. It certainly wouldn't help his predicament. It did nothing but insight his captors. The growl and narrowed eyes of the man in front of him indicated that quite well. As did the sharp nod to the man behind him.

Sherlock braced himself. _Not again. Please, not again._ But he had to. For John and his ridiculous jumpers and warm friendship. For Greg and his stupidity and open trust. For dear Mrs. Hudson and her busy-bodying and baked goods. For all of them, he had to hold out. He had to hold his tongue and take it.

But, by George, if he wasn't tempted just a little to give in. Especially now, when the braided whip struck against his tender back and knocked the breath out from him. As Nenad grinned, holding his hair back so he could watch all the myriad of emotions that flashed across Sherlock's face. As the water pipe….

"Sherlock, snap out of it, mate."

Drip. Drip. The water came. Snap. Snap. The whip came.

"Sherlock, mate, come on, listen to me."

The man in front of Sherlock blurred as someone else appeared over his shoulder. A short man, well-built, with blonde hair. A man with a warm, worried smile and a cane. A man with hideous jumpers.

John.

"John…" Sherlock whispered as the whip hit again. "John, please."

"Sherlock, listen to me. Can you do that?"

"John."

"None of this is real. It's a flashback, Sherlock, a nightmare."

Sherlock blinked hard, but the dark, basement room stubbornly refused to fade completely. It mixed with an ugly white ceiling and hard…bed? Why was he on a bed? There were no beds in Serbia. There were no…oh…oh then John was right. This wasn't real. This…Sherlock heaved his mind forward and abruptly found himself shaking in John's strong arms.

Tears pooled in his eyes as his back screamed and his brain whited out. Too much, his mind palace informed him. He needed to defrag and reboot. He needed to build up the walls Moriarty and his web had succeeded in tearing down these past few months. He needed…John. John, with his unmasking friendship and honest words. John, with his free advice and snarky jokes. John, with his trusty gun, ready to back him up.

"John," Sherlock whispered.

"Sherlock," John called, watching as his dazed eyes slowly flickered around the hospital, his reactions slow, "Sherlock, come back to me." He called, pulling back from the embrace, reaching out and carefully placing his hand under Sherlock's chin to guide his eyes in the right direction. "Sherlock?" He repeated, watching as the detective's eyes _finally_ connected with his and he blinked slowly.

"John?" Sherlock whispered once more.

"Yes, Sherlock," John nodded softly, "it's me."

 **And there is it. Not only my first collaboration, but the longest story to be posted in my Sherlock collection.**

 **I hope you enjoyed it.**

 **Since it** _ **is**_ **my first attempt at co-writing a story, it would be great if you could review and let both myself and Tam know what you thought.**

 **Signed;**

ibelieveinguardianangels **and** Tamuril2


	2. Chapter 2

**Firstly, apologies about the delay. We had not initially intended to extend this, but since we feel that it seems to need to be elaborated on we chose to. Besides, we're really enjoying this. However, life has been getting in the way on both accounts and so we've been doing to best we can with the time we have.**

 **Here is the second chapter – we don't currently have an estimate for how many chapters this story will contain, but we are planning for a few more at least.**

 **Sorry for any mistakes.**

Sherlock, who had been discharged from the hospital for 3 days now, was currently restless. He was pacing the sitting room of 221B, his pale hands buried deep into the curls above his ears, flicking them and tugging at them as he grumbled to himself. John's head was following his movements, dancing up and down his frame as he regarded him.

Sherlock was, thankfully, recovering well from his surgery and seemed to be partially back to his old self.

However, he was extremely distracted and, unbeknownst to John, he was about to find out why.

"Of course, you understand that I won't be staying." Sherlock noted offhandedly as he walked past John again.

"You - what? What do you mean you're not staying?" John inquired, his mouth dropping open at the shock of the words.

Sherlock's pacing ceased and he turned his full attention to John's disbelieving expression. He sat down in his chair, wincing as the pressure on his incision sent a twinge through his frame.

He leant forwards, resting his elbows against his knees and looking towards John.

"There is work that I must complete." Sherlock explained vaguely. "I cannot return and settle until I have done so. It is of vital necessity."

"So, you're just going to leave again?" John inquired, incredulous.

"It was not intended for you to be aware of my being here, John." Sherlock noted. "The work I am doing is extremely dangerous. You were supposed to be kept in the dark until I was ready to return. There is always the chance that I will _not_."

Sherlock noted the glint in John's eyes and sighed deeply.

"Had you not seen me and known that I was still alive, if I were to be killed during this work, you wouldn't have known any different." Sherlock explained. "You would have believed that I had taken my own life. If I don't return now, you won't be aware of what has happened."

John's face took on an expression that Sherlock couldn't place, but he had an idea of what it meant.

"Oh, don't look at me like that." Sherlock sighed once more. "You wouldn't have known I was still alive had you not been in the cab that struck me. There's no changing circumstances, I will be leaving once I am deemed fit enough to travel. Heaven knows that neither yourself nor Mycroft will be content otherwise."

"How considerate of you," John ground out through clenched teeth.

Sherlock blinked, scanned him from head to toe, and then narrowed his eyes. "You're upset."

"Bloody great deduction, Sherlock. What gave it away?"

"Why are you upset?"

"Why am I…? Why am I upset?!" John lurched to his feet, just barely keeping himself from grabbing his friend by his shirt and hauling him up too. "Why am I…you're….you're serious, aren't you? You honestly don't know why I'm angry, do you?"

Sherlock's face adopted a mixture of confusion and affront. "Of course not. I can't see any reason –"

"Can't see?!" John spat out. "You let me think you were dead, Sherlock. Dead! Let me think I buried you. And now you're just going to disappear again and you expect me to just sit here, twiddling my thumbs and hoping you'll come back alive."

"But…But I did it for you, John." Sherlock said, eyes begging John to explain how that was wrong. "Moriarty would've killed you if I hadn't jumped. He would've shot you, Greg, and Mrs. Hudson. His…I have to go, John! Mrs. Hudson could come from her sister's apartment at any moment."

"His what, Sherlock?" John asked. The slight stumble hadn't been missed by the doctor and it was that, combined with the frantic worry in Sherlock's whole being, that calmed the raging anger bubbling in him. "What's out there? Why do you have to leave?"

Sherlock tugged hard on a lock of hair. John had got him to wash it, but the detective refused to cut it – _it's a disguise, John!_

"Sherlock?" John said, stepping a bit closer and hunching down so that he was at eyelevel. "What's going on?"

The taller man avoided his searching gaze and focused on a spot on the wall to the left. "It's…complicated, John."

"Well, we've got time. Mycroft has to do his whole busy-bodying and hovering thing. And I've got to make sure you're not falling apart."

The attempted humour brought a small smile to his friend's lips, but it quickly died. "This is no laughing matter, John."

"Then explain it to me. I can help. I want to help, Sherlock. Let me."

John watched as his friend's face melted into his thinking one. He took a deep breath and moved to sit in his former chair. This could take a while, but the fact the Sherlock was even thinking about this was good. It meant that he was weighing the pros and cons of telling John everything. John only hoped the pros outweighed the cons. If not, he'd have his work cut out for him, because he wasn't taking 'no' for an answer. Not this time.

John twiddled his thumbs as he waited. He knew that when Sherlock took up his trademark pose, his eyes closed and his hands steepled below his chin or over his lips, he could be like that for hours on end. John watched him, occasionally having to convince himself that this really was his best friend and that he was back.

He didn't think he'd be able to cope with watching Sherlock leave again. He couldn't deal with not knowing. He'd had his fair share of missions, likely on a different scale, but he knew how unpredictable they could be. To think that Sherlock was ready to embark on something that could likely leave him as injured as he currently was, if not more so, was not comforting.

John didn't know what he would do if Sherlock ended up dead or incapacitated.

It was bad enough having him so out of character. He didn't know how to cope with anything worse.

"An empire as large as Moriarty's cannot be run by one man alone," Sherlock started, his eyes still closed. "One man cannot be everywhere at once nor can he oversee everything. There must be commanders, generals, lackeys, and such. Otherwise, it runs the risk of falling apart."

John held his breath and waited for his friend to continue on. If he even blinked wrong Sherlock might clam up and decide to keep the rest to himself. So, John made himself say nothing and sit still.

"You'll recall I likened him to a spider and his organization to his web."

There was a prominent pause and John realized that Sherlock wanted him to answer, to acknowledge that he did, indeed, remember this.

"Yes, I remember."

"Good. Some people tend to forget these kind of things and thus condemn themselves to idiocy."

 _Well, least I'm not an idiot anymore,_ John couldn't help but snipe to himself.

"It's these threads of Moriarty's web that I must destroy," Sherlock said, opening his eyes and fixing his gaze fully on John. The intensity seared through the doctor and peered into his innermost depths. Stripped bare all his worries and dreams and then filed them. Sherlock straightened and dropped his hands to his lap. "If even one of these threads is left strong, all of my plans will be for nothing. You, Mrs. Hudson, Greg, you'll all die. If not right away, then soon. Moriarty's minions are getting restless."

"And you think you can stop them?"

"Yes."

"By yourself?!"

"Mycroft has offered a few of his men to help clean up so there won't be any evidence of my being alive. At least, not until I'm done."

John struggled to contain himself, but to hear such utter arrogance in the face of such overwhelming odds grated in his last nerve. He clenched the arm rests of his chair tightly. "And if one of these minions happens to find you? What then?"

"I suspect I will die." Sherlock's forehead creased. "Or be tortured."

Well, that answered the questions about the beatings and Sherlock's marred back. He'd obviously run into some trouble and barely got out. The fact that this didn't bother the detective worried John. A man who had no self-preservation wouldn't last long in a black op – and that's what this was, a black op. John shook his head. "You idiot."

Sherlock blinked. "What?"

"You heard me, you're an idiot."

"John –"

"No Sherlock, you've had your say, now it's my turn." John snapped, his worry fuelling his harsh words. "You have to destroy this web and I get that. It makes sense. What doesn't make sense is why I'm not there with you. Given what the doctors said about the state of your body, you need someone watching your six. Mycroft obviously isn't cutting it. Why not me?"

"No."

"Why, Sherlock. I need a reason why."

"Because I need you to protect everyone here should I fail."

John's upper lip twitched. Sherlock wanted him to remain in London, to provide a protective barrier for his friend's should his return be impeded or permanently cancelled. Sherlock wanted to ensure that there would be something put in place, should Moriarty's underlings capture him and torture him or kill him, or even torture him to death. Dear Sherlock, the poor surprisingly _caring_ detective wanted to ensure his friends had a higher chance of being safe, even in the event of his death.

Sherlock hadn't said as much, but John suspected that if he was caught trying to protect him and take down Moriarty's web, it would be only expected that the lackey's would go after John, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson as if they were the main instigators of Sherlock's mission. Not to mention, that it would hurt him (if he were able to know) that his death had been all for nothing.

Sherlock was... _scared_.

That pulled John back a bit. The lanky detective hardly showed this kind of attention to his emotions. If ever. The closest John had ever seen Sherlock come to this was when Moriarty had held him hostage at the pool and forced Sherlock to watch.

Kind of like now, in a way. Oh, the 'spider' himself was dead, but his webs were still reaching out to threaten those Sherlock cared for. Sociopath, my foot.

Not just anyone would jump off a building and pretend to be dead, leave their entire life behind, for people they claimed to not care about. Nope. That honour fell to Sherlock. For his talk that Mrs. Hudson was annoying in her caring and Greg was an idiot, Sherlock still couldn't stand the thought of them dead. Of John dead. And that touched John. Made his lips curl up slightly.

Sherlock frowned at him his seat. "What? Why are you smiling?"

"Sociopath, eh?"

"Oh, shut up, John. Don't misconstrue my words. I merely wish to have a backup plan so Moriarty's men and women do not interfere with my hunt."

"Uh-huh."

"Stop it!"

"You care. Admit it, Sherlock. You care about us three, if no one else." John smiled softly. "You know we care about you too, right?"

It appeared for a moment that the doctor's comment had caused the detective to experience a malfunction. Sherlock's initially affronted facial expression dropped, leaving his pallor complexion emotionless. His tapping fingers halted, one still raised in its drumming position.

But moments later, he sucked in a deep breath, tilting his head a little and blinking rapidly. He tried to speak, stammering as the sound became blocked in his throat. With a swallow that would be better described as a gulp and another blink, Sherlock transformed into the detective that John knew.

He raised his right hand, waving it flippantly.

"Caring," He mumbled, "not an advantage."

And somehow, John knew that the sentiment had derived from one, infuriating, Mycroft Holmes.

He sat back in his armchair. "Right. So, are we telling Lestrade?"

"What? Of course not!"

John took a deep breath. Then, when that didn't work, he took a few more. Sherlock shifted in his own chair, probably about to spout off random facts that somehow connected together to prove Greg shouldn't know, but John raised a hand and the detective stilled. "Sherlock, he deserves to know."

"Sentiment."

"Honesty."

"Throwing one word to counteract mine does not prove anything."

John straightened his posture. Fine. If Sherlock wanted to verbally toss his words that way, John would swing back some of his own. "He'd be a good asset, and you know it."

"It's too risky."

John soldiered on. "He has resources that Mycroft doesn't."

Sherlock snorted. "Such as?"

"Friends."

Sherlock paused and leaned forward. "Explain."

"He, unlike Mycroft, has a social life. Friends both on the Internet, in the force, and locally. People he can contact to cover things up, keep things on the low, and to help you…should you need it."

"Mycroft has those too."

"No, Mycroft has people he hires, blackmails, and scares. Greg has friends." John stifled a smile – Sherlock wouldn't take it the right way – and leaned his chin on his fist. "There's a difference, Sherlock. The first can do a lot, but the second is good too. If you're really going to do this, you'll probably need both. I can get you military, but Greg can go even further. He might even have a few contacts in the black market."

But Sherlock had already decided. He shook his head, leaning back in his chair and folding his left leg over his right, his pain apparently forgotten as his marvellous mind was drawn to another subject.

"It's simply not feasible." Sherlock stated. "It would be far too dangerous for Lestrade to be made aware. I've mentioned, I have work that needs to be finished and until I've successfully done so, it's far too dangerous to involve you all. It's bad enough that you know." Sherlock shook his head at the affronted expression on his friend's face. "Not like that. I only mean to say that if word gets out to anyone else that I'm still alive, my entire plan will go to pieces."

"And you don't think it's _fair_ to tell him that his friend isn't dead?" John countered, frowning.

"What's _fair_ about telling him something that could ultimately mean his demise? John, this situation isn't something that can be played with. Lestrade cannot know."

And with that, John knew that he'd lost the argument. And with Sherlock Holmes, there was no point in trying to reignite the flame. He'd probably just ignore him anyway.

As Sherlock sat communing with his Mind Palace, John pushed himself up and into the kitchen. Sherlock could take anywhere from a few minutes to hours when in this mode. And John had no intention of waiting in his chair the entire time. He'd use the time to get them some tea and biscuits. Maybe even research some things for Sherlock that the man wouldn't think to include during his 'Hiatus'. (John still thought that name ridiculous, regardless of Sherlock's "But John, I am abstaining from The Work, so it's true!")

John paused in the doorway, suddenly hesitant to let Sherlock out of his sight for even a moment. What if the idiot decided it was in John's best interests to disappear while John was preoccupied with the tea and biscuits? After months of believing him dead, John was in no rush to have Sherlock go without saying goodbye. Not this time. No, John deserved a proper farewell and a proper farewell he would get.

"Oh, go make your tea already," a baritone voice sniped.

John jolted. "What?"

"It was obvious that you were worried I might leave without you knowing." Sherlock sniffed, but his eyes softened. "I shan't do that to you again, John."

 **Thank you for reading from the both of us. We really love reading your reviews!**

 **Signed,**

ibelieveinguardianangels **and** Tamuril2


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter three. Thank you all for staying with us. It's quite difficult for two people with two very different lives to write together in a short space of time, so I, for one, and I'm certain that** Tamuril2 **will probably feel the same way, am very thankful that you're waiting for us and staying with our story.**

 **Sorry for any mistakes.**

John was restless. The tea had been consumed and the doctor had even managed to convince Sherlock to eat a few biscuits. But John just couldn't relax. Not now. Not knowing that his _best friend_ was on the verge of leaving again. He couldn't stand the thought, now that he'd got him back, that this Wally could possibly go and get himself killed for the sake of John himself. John was the soldier. John was the one that should be in the firing line. Not Sherlock.

 _Never_ Sherlock.

And yet, here they were. And John couldn't help but wonder – does that make him selfish?

He, Greg and Mrs. Hudson could _die_ if Sherlock didn't continue with his mission. But if he did, then Sherlock could be the one dying and somehow, _somehow_ even John couldn't explain, losing Sherlock seemed to be the worst possible scenario.

And that made John feel disgusted with himself and his thought process.

 _I'm not the only one in danger here_ , he reminds himself again. He pushed down the thought that Mrs. Hudson and Greg would probably agree with him. This wasn't about them…or rather it was _all_ about them. Sherlock had risked so much and all he asked was that John keep quiet about it for a little while longer. The only problem? It went against John's nature to be so lax. There was a reason he'd joined the wrestling team in school, and the football team in Uni.

John didn't do lax. He lived for action, thrived off of it, and yet now he had to do nothing. Act as if Sherlock was still dead, pretend he was still in mourning, and lie to all of his other friends.

All because of Sherlock.

 _I wonder if this is what he felt like._ John paused. _Feels like. He's still doing it._

Looking at the detective now, watching him with his hands steepled in a prayer position over his lips once more, his frame hunched over with his elbows on his knees, a position that surely couldn't do much for the injuries to his back let alone his incision, John found he was seeing him in a different light.

This Sherlock in front of him was a far cry from the Sherlock that had allegedly taken his life. He was like an empty outer shell of his former self. And John felt like he had an understanding now of why. It couldn't be easy, surely, to leave your life behind, the leave everything you care about with no knowledge of whether or not you will _ever_ be granted the chance to see it all again.

It must bring with it a certain extent of anxiety.

Especially when it came, now, to knowing how betrayed his first true friend – the first person who ever treated him with any real respect and care – would feel if he left again. Now being given the 'choice' to take John with him meant that all the doctor had really done was add more stress to the already fraying detective.

And surely that stress couldn't be good for him. At all.

And now he's got to do it all over again. It hit John hard. As difficult as it had been for Sherlock before, to leave his friends in the dark, how much more so now? Up until this past week, Sherlock had been safe in the knowledge that his friends were not worried about him. He could move with relative ease, but now John knew and that added to the young detective's burden.

"Oh do stop," Sherlock's voice broke in.

John started. "Sorry?"

"You're putting emotions in me that do not exist." Sherlock glared overtop his fingers. "Stop it. It's annoying."

John stuffed his hands into his pockets and scanned his friend over. His friend seemed on the verge of running away and huddling himself for comfort. An odd combination for Sherlock, to be sure. But one that John could understand. Even the callous declaration made sense. It's what Sherlock did when things got confusing and emotional. He withdrew and clammed up tighter than London Tower.

John rolled back on his heels. "So you unfeelingly gave up your life for us?"

"Feelings had nothing to do with it, John."

"Right."

"John!"

"Sherlock."

The bony man narrowed his eyes. "Place me on a pedestal, John, and I shall only disappoint."

John's pre-planned response to whatever Sherlock was going to say died in his throat. There was no way he could possibly reply to something like that in a manner that could be seen by this already surprisingly sensitive genius as careless. Sherlock took offense to a number of things, a lot more that people would expect, he just did it in a different way. Rather than getting angry, or crying as a way to let out his hurt, Sherlock stopped talking. If he was speaking about something that would be classed as 'sentimental' the slightest raise of an eyebrow or blink in the wrong place during Sherlock's sentence could cause him to clam up and stop talking completely.

But John just couldn't seem to understand how this magnificent genius of a man could ever view himself as disappointing. He was a role model to many. John had read, despite himself, the news ever since Sherlock's so-called suicide and he had become something of a minor celebrity. He had groups set up on his behalf with people aiming to be just like him in order to try and solve the mystery and prove that their dead idol was wrongly accused.

He was a leader depending on a person's perspective. He had a following in a number of homeless people who hung on his every word and followed his orders without question. The Yard looked to him to solve their crimes when they found themselves unable to do so themselves. He was a brilliant person and John just couldn't believe that the detective could ever view himself in such a way.

He had a sense of inferiority buried beneath his superior act, clearly, a sense of inferiority buried so deep that it came across as arrogance as he tried to hide his low views about himself from those that surrounded him and now... well, John wasn't entirely sure what was to happen now. He had revealed some of his low opinion of himself to John and he knew that John wouldn't just settle for that -

Unless... unless John was, as always, reading too much into this.

A human Sherlock was, but his emotions were buried so deep within him, maybe he forgot how to access them except in times when circumstances had called for such emotions to be released.

"I doubt Greg would use that word to describe you," John said at last.

"No?" Sherlock sneered. "Would he not? I have repeatedly used drugs, stolen from him, kept evidence from his teams, and now lied about my death. I think Lestrade would say I am the very definition of the term: disappointing."

"You need to stop putting words in our mouths." John held up a hand to forestall his friend's obvious deductions. "No, listen. You constantly say you should observe before drawing conclusions, but I think you're missing a few things. Who does Greg go to every time he needs help? And who does Mrs. Hudson take care of on a regular basis?"

"Lestrade does so only because he has no other recourse." Sherlock sniped. "And Mrs. Hudson is…naïve."

John sighed. "There are plenty of other smart people Greg could go to for advice. They might not get it done as fast as you, but they would get it done. And without all the dramatics. No, he comes to you because he trusts you. And you don't trust people who disappoint you. You put them at arm's length."

A picture of Harry popped into John mind and his heart clenched. So much had been lost between him and his sister. Too many lies. But, strangely, even with this 'Hiatus', John had never felt the same way with Sherlock. Frustrated, angry, sad? Oh yes. But never disappointed.

 _And from what Greg's said he agrees with me_. John brushed Harry aside for the moment, though resolving to check up on her soon. He was her brother, after all. Right now though, he needed to set Sherlock straight.

"And Mrs. Hudson loves you. I don't think she's as naïve as you make her out to be. Not with her husband. Not after all the things you've told her. She might not ruminate on the things you do, but she surely knows about them." John paused. "She's proud of you, Sherlock. Said so at your… funeral, and even before that. Why else would she defend you so often?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and huffed, looking away out the window. "Sentiment. You all drown yourselves in it."

"Doesn't make it wrong."

"It clouds one's judgement and makes it harder to truly deduce the truth."

"Sometimes, yeah," John acknowledged. "But other times, you need it to know why people act and think what they do. You can't box it away and pretend it's not there."

 _Like you try to do_. John left out, because heaven knew what the man would say if John admitted to thinking Sherlock was human.

He saw Sherlock's eyes roll upwards into his head as he allowed his hands to drop into his lap for a moment, the very picture of exasperation, before re-adopting his previous position. John knew that Sherlock would have some kind of scathing remark on the tip of his tongue, but if he did it didn't get any further than that. Instead, Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the doctor, an expression that John was used to seeing on Sherlock's face, but somehow – even after all this time – it didn't make it any easier to deal with.

Instead, the detective spoke slowly as though speaking to a child. John had a feeling that hidden behind his words was a warning that he was praying he would take note of.

"No matter the sentiment nor the reasoning behind it, the situation does not change. I have work to do and I refuse to allow you to come with me. You must stay and…watch the others."

John had a feeling that Sherlock had just narrowly avoided saying "take care of", but of course, that would be too _sentimental_ for him.

And now John had a choice to make. Continue this conversation, and perhaps cause Sherlock to run away from what the young man would deem as 'idiocy'. Or John could accept his friend's awful decision and work to somehow make a plan that involved Sherlock actually returning to them alive. John breathed in sharply. Put like that, he didn't suppose there really was any recourse except option B. Not that he liked it.

Not one bit.

"John?" Sherlock's voice said, and John realized he'd shut his eyes at some point. Must've freaked Sherlock out, having that done to him.

John opened his eyes to find Sherlock frowning at him from the chair, body leaning in a bit more. John straightened his back and nodded. "Right. I'll stay then. But only if we get a good working plan together. I'm not having you come back in a few months with stories of how you got tortured again, or forgot to eat."

"But John!" Sherlock protested. "How can I think of eating at a time like this?"

It didn't escape John's notice that Sherlock skirted around the subject of torture. He'd keep that in mind and maybe sign Sherlock up for a few therapy sessions (or just have him talk to John, seeing as how Sherlock would probably have any therapist in tears after two seconds). So John stuffed that bit of info into the Sherlock box in his mind and focused on what Sherlock had said.

"And I suppose fainting from lack of nutrition will help you do this faster?"

"This body is merely transport, John. I don't need to indulge it, especially now."

John rolled his eyes. "I'm not saying you indulge it with cakes and junk food. I'm not an idiot – don't even go there, Sherlock! – I'm not. I just think you should have some cereal bars on you. Maybe even a few safe houses that you routinely check into. Get a decent meal in every week."

"It will only slow me down!"

"Then I guess I'm coming with you," John said. He raised an eyebrow. "If you won't look after yourself, I will have to."

"You would leave Mrs. Hudson and Greg so vulnerable?" Sherlock sneered. "I had thought better of you, John."

"Don't try and put this on me." John spat back. "Of course I want Greg and Mrs. Hudson safe. But you going around like that won't accomplish it either. You'd die before you finished taking down Moriarty's Web; either by getting captured or your body just plain giving out."

"I've been doing it for months now, John!"

"And look where it got you! You didn't even see the light change or that a taxi was coming at you. You're lucky the driver noticed you in all that rain and swerved at the last second. You'd probably be dead if he'd hit you head on!" John glared. "And you're going to tell me what? It wasn't because your mind was, maybe, a little clouded recently? Migraine headaches every day? Limbs weak or trembling? More tired than usual?"

John hated pushing like this. Hated it, regardless if it was Sherlock or a normal patient. It ran the risk of scaring Sherlock away. Too much sentiment, again. But John really did fear Sherlock would die if he didn't think about these things. God only knew Mycroft didn't care to point them out.

 **Thank you for reading – from the both of us.**

 **Signed;**

ibelieveinguardianangels **and** Tamuril2


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